Graydon sat with his chin in his hands, dull, stricken, crushed. He had heard the story of his father's baseness from Frances Cable, and he had been told the true story of Jane; from Rigby he learned of the vile transactions in which his father had dealt. At first, he could scarcely believe his own ears, but in the end lie saw that but—half the truth could be told.

It was past midnight when he left David Cable's, not to go to his own home, but to that of Elias Droom. He knew now that the newspapers would devote columns to the "sensation in high life"; he knew that Jane would suffer agonies untold, but he would not blame his father for that; he knew that arrest and disgrace hung over the tall grey man who had shown his true and amazing side at last; he knew that shame and humiliation were to be his own share in the division. Down somewhere in his aching heart he nourished the hope that Elias Droom could ease the pain of these wretched disclosures.

As he traversed the dark streets across town he was vaguely wondering whether Jane's eyes would ever lose the pained, hopeless expression he had last seen in them. He wondered whether she would retract her avowal that she could not be his wife with the shame upon her; he rejoiced in her tearless, lifeless promise to hold him in no fault for what had happened.

Distressed and miserable, he spent the remainder of the night in Elias Droom's squalid rooms, sitting before the little stove which his host replenished from time to time during the weary hours.

Droom answered his questions with a direct tenderness that surprised even himself. He kept much to himself, however, and advised the young man to reserve judgment until after he had heard his father's side of the story.

"I've been loyal to James Bansemer, Graydon, and I'll still be loyal to him. He's not done right by other people, but he has tried to do right by you."

"If he wanted to do right by me, why did he not tell me of Jane's misfortune?" exclaimed the young man bitterly.

"Because he really wanted you to marry her. She was born wrong, but anybody can see she is without a flaw. That's the truth, Graydon. Your father was wrong in his desire to make capital of it in connection with Mrs. Cable. I told him so. I don't believe he knew just what he was doing. He was so used to success, you see. Can't you go to sleep, boy? You need to."

"God, no!"

"I'd advise you to go home and talk it over with your father."

"To-morrow will be time enough. After the newspapers are out. I can't bear to think of the disgrace, Harbert has been interviewed, they say. He's told everything."

"Talk to your father to-night, my boy. There may be—may be warrants to-morrow."

The young man dropped his head on his arm and burst into tears. Old Droom puffed vigorously at his pipe, his eyes shifting and uncomfortable. Twice he attempted to speak, and could not. In both instances he arose and poked the fire. At last the young man's choking sobs grew less violent. Droom cleared his throat with raucous emphasis, took his snaky gaze from a print on the wall representing "Dawn," and spoke:

"You wouldn't think it to look at me now—or any other time, for that matter—but I loved a woman once. A long time ago. She never knew it. I didn't expect her to love me. How could I? Don't cry, Graydon. You're not like I was. The girl you love loves you. Cheer up. If I were you I'd go ahead and make her my wife. She's good enough, I'll swear."

"She says she can't marry me. Good Heaven, Elias, you don't know what a blow it was to her. It almost killed her. And my own father—oh, it was terrible!"

Elias Droom did not tell him—nor had he ever told anyone but himself—that the woman he loved was the boy's mother. He loved her before and after she married James Bansemer. He never had faltered in his love and reverence for her.

Graydon waited in his rooms until the old man returned with the morning papers. As Droom placed them on the table beside him, he grinned cheerfully.

"Big headlines, eh? But these are not a circumstance to what they will be. These articles deal only with the great mystery concerning the birth of one of the 'most beautiful and popular young women in Chicago.' Wait—wait until the Bansemer smash comes to reinforce the story! Fine reading, eh!"

"Don't, Elias, for Heaven's sake, don't!" cried the young man. "Have you no soft spot in your heart? God, I believe you enjoy all this. Look! Look what it says about her! The whole shameful story of that scene last night! There was a reporter there when it happened."

Together they read the papers. Their comments varied. The young man writhed and groaned under the revelations that were going to the public; the old clerk chuckled and philosophised.

Every one of these papers prophesied other and more sensational developments before the day was over. It promised to be war to the knife between David Cable, president of the Pacific, Lakes & Atlantic, and the man Bansemer. In each interview with Cable he was quoted as saying emphatically that the adoption of Jane had been made with his knowledge and consent. The supposed daughter was the only one to whom the startling revelations were a surprise. There also was mention of the fact that the young woman had immediately broken her engagement with James Bansemer's son. There were pictures of the leading characters in the drama.

"I can't stay in Chicago after all this," exclaimed Graydon, springing to his feet, his hands clenched in despair. "To be pointed out and talked about! To be pitied and scorned! To see the degradation of my own father! I'll go—anywhere, just so it is away from Chicago."

Droom forgot his desire to scoff. His sardonic smile dwindled into a ludicrously, pathetic look of dismay. He begged the young man to think twice before he did anything "foolish." "In any event," he implored, "let me get you some breakfast, or at least, a cup of coffee."

In the end he helped Graydon into his coat and glided off down Wells Street after him. It was seven o'clock, and every corner newsstand glowered back at them with black frowns as they looked at the piles of papers. Two rough-looking men walking ahead of them were discussing the sensation in a lewd, brutal way. A saloon-keeper shouted to them: "It don't always happen over on de West Side, does it?"

Graydon went to the office of Clegg, Groll & Davidson early and arranged his affairs so that they could be taken up at once by another; and then, avoiding his fellow-workers as much as possible, presented himself to Mr. Clegg at ten o'clock. Without hesitation he announced his intention to give up his place in the office. All argument put forth by his old friend and employer went for naught. The cause of his action was not discussed, but it was understood.

"If you ever want to come back to us, Graydon, we will welcome you with open arms. It isn't as bad as you think."

"You don't understand, Mr. Clegg," was all that Graydon could say.

Then he hurried off to face his father.

James Bansemer, haggard from loss of sleep and from fury over the alienation of his son, together with the fear of what the day might bring, was pacing the floor of his private office. Droom had eased his mind but little in regard to his son. When he heard Graydon's voice in the outer room, his face brightened and he took several quick steps toward the door. He checked himself suddenly with the remembrance that his son had turned against him the night before, and his face hardened.

Graydon found him standing stern and unfriendly before the steam radiator in the darkest corner of the room, his hands behind his back. The young man plumped down heavily in his father's desk chair.

"Why didn't you come home last night?" demanded the other.

"I hated the thought of it," he answered dejectedly.

"You've listened to their side of the story. You're a splendid son, you are!" sneered the father.

"There is nothing base and unprincipled in their side of the story. They have tried to shield her; they have never harmed her. But you! Why, father, you've blighted her life forever. They were going to tell her in a day or so, and they could have made it easy for her. Not like this! Why, in Heaven's name, did you strike her like that? She's—she's the talk of the town. She's ostracised, that's what she is, and she's the best girl that ever lived."

"Oh, you think they would have told her, eh? No! They would have let her marry—-"

"Well, and what was your position? Why were you so considerate up to last night? If you knew, why did you let me go on so blindly? The truth is, father, if you must have it, you have acted like a damned scoundrel."

James Bansemer glared at his son with murder in his eyes.

"I wouldn't have believed the other things they say of you if I hadn't this to break down my faith. I heard this with my own ears. It was too contemptible to forget in a lifetime. I did not come here to discuss it with you. The thing is done. I came here to tell you that I am going to leave Chicago. You WON'T go, so I will." Bansemer still glared at him, but there was amazement mingling with rage in his eyes. "I can't look a soul in the face. I am ashamed to meet the Cables. Good Lord, I'm afraid even to think of Jane."

"I suppose you-you would marry her, like a fool, even now," muttered the father.

"Marry her? Of course I would. I love her more than ever. I'd give my life for her; I'd give my soul to ease the pain you have thrust upon her. But it's over between us. Don't let our affairs worry you. She has ended it. I don't blame her. How could she marry your son? Why, do you know that I have hoped that I might not be your son, after all? I almost prayed that my mother might have loved someone else instead of you. God, I'd like the pain of knowing that."

Bansemer leaned heavily against the radiator, gasping for breath. Then he staggered to the couch and dropped upon it, moaning.

"Graydon, Graydon! Don't say that! Don't! I'll make everything right. I'll try to undo it all! My boy, you are the only thing on earth I love. I've been heartless to all the rest of the world, but I love you. Don't turn against me."

The son stood looking at him in dull wonder. His heart was touched. He had not thought that this stern man could weep; he began to see the misery that was breaking him.

"Dad, don't do that," he said, starting toward him. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry for you."

Bansemer leaped to his feet, his mood changing like a flash.

"I don't want your pity. I want your love and loyalty. I didn't mean to be weak. Will you leave Chicago with me? I must go. We'll go at once—anywhere, only together. We can escape if we start now. Come!"

"I won't go that way!" exclaimed Graydon. "Not like a criminal."

"No? You won't?" There was no answer. "Then, there's nothing more to say. Go! Leave me alone. I had prayed that you might not have been like this. Go! I have important business to attend to at once." He cast his gaze toward the drawer in which the pistol lay. "I don't expect to see you again. Take this message to the Cables. Say that I am the only living soul who knows the names of that girl's father and mother. God alone can drag them from me."

Graydon was silent, stunned, bewildered. His father was trembling before him, and he opened his lips to utter the question that meant so much if the answer came.

"Don't ask me!" cried Bansemer. "You would be the last I'd tell. Marry her, and be dammed!"

"I don't believe you know," cried Graydon.

"Ah, you think I'll tell you?" triumphantly.

"I don't want to know." He sat down, his moody gaze upon his father. Neither spoke for many minutes. Neither had the courage. James Bansemer finally started up with a quick look at the door. Droom was speaking to someone in the outer office.

"Go now," he said harshly; "I want to be alone."

"Father, are you—are you afraid of these charges?" His father laughed shortly and extended his hand to the young man.

"Don't worry about me. They can't down James Bansemer. You may leave Chicago; I'll stay! Goodbye, Graydon!"

"Good-bye, dad!"

They shook hands without flinching and the young man left the room. On the threshold the father called after him:

"Where do you expect to go?"

"I don't know!"

Droom was talking to a youth who held a notebook in his hand and who appeared frightened and embarrassed. Graydon shook hands with the old man. Droom followed him into the hall.

"If you ever need a friend, Graydon," he said in a low voice, "call on me. If I'm not in jail, I'll help you."

Half an hour later Graydon rang the Cables' doorbell.

"Miss Jane is not seeing anyone to-day, sir," said the servant.

"Say that I must see her," protested the young man, "I'm going away to-night."

"So is she, sir."

"Where?"

"I don't know, sir. California, more than likely. Mrs. Cable and she will be gone for some time."

"Did she tell you not to admit me?" he asked, white-faced and calm.

"Yes, sir. NOBODY, sir."

He turned down the steps and walked away.

That afternoon he enlisted, and the following morning was going westward with a party of recruits, bound eventually for service with the Regulars in the Philippines.